


Exercises in Futility

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-08-31
Updated: 2001-08-31
Packaged: 2018-11-21 00:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11345886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The origins of Alex.





	Exercises in Futility

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Exercises in Futility By Beth

Disclaimers: Actually, they *are* mine. But if you tell anyone, it'll totally disrupt the court case. :)  
Pairing: K/Other  
Spoilers: None. Pre X-files.  
Summary: The origins of Alex.  
Warning: contains a little not-particularly-consensual sex.  
Series: As yet, a stand alone piece. But I have a couple of ideas...  
Thanks to Ursula, as usual, who read this quite a while ago and agreed.  
Feedback to Aaaaw, go on....

* * *

***  
Exercises in Futility  
By Beth  
***

He was 13 when the world ended.

Rain pattered softly on the windows, a gentle breeze blowing some of the drops through the smashed door to mingle with the salt water already on the boy's face. The same breeze might have been the one to blow the leaf onto the man's boot; and now the blaze of orange was the only thing that the boy could see.

It was almost the same colour as her hair.

The leaf seemed to leach all the colour from the room, burning brighter even than the heat pouring from the hole in his stomach and over his clenched hands. It was the only deviation from the stark blackness of the man's clothing and it seemed to be his only connection to the real world, the world outside the pain- so he clung to it as the room turned grey, barely noticing as a gunshot cut his mother off halfway through screaming his father's name.

But *she* was okay, and that seemed to be the only important thing. She wasn't *theirs*, not in any real sense, but she belonged much more with them than she ever could in the laboratories and testing facilities she had come from. And since they had taken her and moved to America, since the night of desperate escape, he had loved his little sister more than anything... had been willing to die for her.

So as he saw her white face appear at the kitchen door he shook his head desperately to tell her to run, to not let them take her again- but she came to him anyway. And from the resigned expression on her face he could see that she knew they would take her. And inwardly he screamed at her, because what good could it do now? But she dropped to her knees beside him, and her face was the last thing he saw before the blackness crept in at the edges of his vision...

And then he saw a bright light, and although he *knew* that he couldn't hear her, her voice was inside his head telling him that everything would be okay, that she would be fine. That she couldn't let him die.

And the heat in his stomach changed to a bolt of white-hot pain and he passed out, silently screaming "Natalya!"

***

The room was beautiful. It was the largest room he had ever been in- the four poster bed alone seemed bigger than his bedroom had been in the only house they had been able to afford. The hangings and the bedclothes were heavily embroidered, and the sheets were silk... but not for *his* benefit.

There was oak panelling all around the four walls, the expanse of wood broken only by tasteful landscapes by Constable, and a large poster of the Sex Pistols.

The poster seemed to be the only concession to individuality in the otherwise impersonal room. Comfortable and opulent, it was still only as welcoming as a hotel room- but he didn't care. It was as good a place as any, and it wasn't as if he had anywhere else that he could go.

There was only thing that he wanted. Well... two, really. Four years had passed, and he still woke screaming her name in the middle of the night; but he thought he could bear that if he could just find the key.

There were two doors to his bedroom. One of them opened to the hallway, and therefore to the rest of the house, to the grounds- to the only freedom he knew. And the other door... that led to *his* room. The old man. His mentor, his benefactor; in many ways, his surrogate father... in too many ways. He had hoped that it would be over. And if he could just lock that door when he went to bed at night then maybe he could be happy here.

But that was never going to be an option.

"Alexander?"

He stiffened slightly, and his face turned once again to the expressionless mask that was his only defence. He hated the anglicised name. He was Alexei Peter Krycek- named for his grandfathers. But the old man wouldn't allow him contact with his past- he had been beaten whenever he had spoken his mother tongue until his English was flawless.

He turned away from the window, where he had been watching a fox warily approaching the trap that had been set for it- willing it to escape unharmed. Just before he lost sight of it he saw it jump sideways and take flight into the woods... and he nearly smiled.

It was almost the same colour as her hair.

***

The old man liked him in preppy clothes- smart and demure, with his hair neatlly parted to the side- so the haircut had partly been directed at him. As had the leather pants, tight black top and studded black collar he was wearing... not that *he* knew about that part. Any more than he knew about the fact that Alex was anywhere outside the house and grounds that had to all intents and purposes held him prisoner for so long.

He never told Alex where he was going, or for how long, but Alex was resourceful- exactly as the old man was working so hard to train him to be-which was how he knew he was safe, at least for tonight. So he had gone back again, to a place of darkness and anonymity- a place where no one knew your name, where it wasn't important that you knew. Most of the men here would be married, with 2.4 children and a walk-in closet that they couldn't walk out of... but a couple of others were like him.

It took longer than usual- he had almost finished his beer before he was approached. Alex hadn't seen this guy before, and he realised that most of the regulars were deliberately avoiding his eyes. They must have heard... but the guy had pulled a knife. And it wasn't like he'd killed him.

The alley was darker than the inside of the bar, and for that he was grateful. It was easier to do this if he didn't have to see them, knew that they couild barely see him. It made submitting to them that little bit easier, made it harder for them to see the disgust in his eyes. And it wasn't so much for them as it was for himself.

He swallowed hard to keep from gagging at the taste on the back of his tongue, and accepted the money with the same indifference as he had accepted the attempted caresses. He didn't need it. He watched as the man old enough to be his father slowly walked away, then he dropped to his knees once again and searched single-mindedly through the rubbish.

He clenched his teeth and his hand shook slightly as the glass bit deeply into his thigh, crossing other scars old and new alike. Dark blood welled in the path his hand had taken, and the pain was a line of ice-cold fire across his leg; a fire that had never stopped burning in all the years she'd been gone. And bringing the fire to the surface helped to distract him from the other pain for a while. He pulled his pants back up, smearing the well of blood, and wakled out onto the street.

The streetlights turned everything orange... but he could barely remember the colour of her hair.

***

He pushed his face harder into the pillow, and wished that suffocation was possible. The old man was already spent, but Alex didn't want to face him, didn't want him to see the tear tracks on his cheeks. So he just closed his eyes and hid in the pillow, like a child waiting for the bogeyman to disappear.

"Where is it, Alex?" He made no reply. "I want the knife, Alex. I don't want you to keep doing this." The Brit reached over and lightly stroked his shoulder, but removed his hand when the young man visibly flinched. "No matter." He rolled out of Alex's bed and padded softly across the thick carpet towards his room- but he didn't leave, not yet. Alex sighed and turned over, looking at him expressionlessly.

"You are a young man of singular talents, Alex. I am a member of a group that could use someone of your abilities. You will meet with us tomorrow." His free will was no longer an issue.

"Okay." His softly voiced reply was obviously what the man had been waiting for, because at this he turned and left the room. And Alex waited until the door had clicked closed before he reached under the mattress for the knife; tears running unnoticed down his cheeks as he took his temporary escape route.

End

NB I actually wrote this when I was supposed to be writing a timed English essay. The teacher said he didn't care what we did as long as we were quiet. Then he made us hand them in... erk! But he liked it. :)

  
Archived: August 30, 2001 


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